


Fool in the Rain

by archeolatry



Series: Dean's Top 13 Zepp Traxx [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel's Mixtape, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Gen, Led Zeppelin - Freeform, M/M, Pre-Episode: s07e05 Shut Up Dr Phil, Songfic, Sorry I'm using you as a framing device Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 06:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12315471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeolatry/pseuds/archeolatry
Summary: Sam runs and thinks.______"Sam pondered, and not for the first time, if maybe—and it sounded a little less crazy every time he considered it—if maybe Dean’s connection to Cas was...“more than friendship”. Something far more earthly than their so-called “profound bond”.





	Fool in the Rain

Heart Rate: 141 bpm  
Distance: 2.3 miles  
Calories Burned: 575.2

Sam glanced at his phone and nodded in approval. He was making good time. That little bracelet was the best hundred and fifty bucks of someone else’s money he’d ever spent. 

There was a small park a half-mile from the motel, with a duck pond and clover-dotted hills, and a tree-lined, paved path ribboning through the grass. There were a few joggers already making the rounds; some acknowledging him with polite, neighborly nods, some huffing and puffing and avoiding eye contact with the big guy who made it look easy. 

As much as he hated leaving the relative comfort and safety of Bobby’s house, it felt good to be on an honest-to-God jogging trail. The road that led to Bobby’s was two-lane blacktop, flanked by loose gravel, high weeds, and marshy creek beds. It was hard to enjoy a run when you were a mosquito buffet. And it was nice to hear some music from this century for a change. 

It was too nice, frankly. This peaceful ease never lasted long.

He was staring to feel whole again. Even with his soul intact, he had felt like some fundamental part of him was missing; like he was jerry-rigged, held together with duct tape and paper clips. Those memories of Hell were terrifying, but they were _his_. And they seemed to fade as he recovered from his blow to the head. Lucifer hadn’t so much as appeared in his periphery in days. The leviathan had kept quiet; they’d gone nearly a month without one pinging their radar. For better or worse, all was quiet on the Castiel front.

They were overdue for a whammy and they both knew it.

_“Oh baby…”_

The music on his phone swerved abruptly from the new Black Keys single to _“Fool in the Rain”_. Sam almost jabbed at the ‘next’ button on principle, but his hand stayed. It was one of a few Led Zeppelin songs that didn’t make him wince at the opening notes—perhaps because it hadn’t been played _ad nauseam_ through the Impala’s speakers for decades. And it was one of their few upbeat songs that didn’t sound like porn through his earbuds. 

It was also a sharp reminder that he should cool down, and get back to the motel before Dean got any deeper into that bottle in his duffel. 

He and Bobby had attempted to acknowledge the elephant—hell, the entire circus—in the room, but Dean had been beyond taciturn. 

When Dean ended up out of commission with an injury he became—frankly—a grumpy little bitch. A hammer in search of a nail. He could be set off on a tangent by anything from the plot of a _telenovela_ to the amount of pulp in his orange juice. Once recovered, he’d almost immediately revert back to Handsome Macho Action Man, brandishing his gun with relish and quipping like he was auditioning for _Die Hard 6_. Now he was just…going through the motions. Eat, hunt, drink, pass out, repeat. Sam willed himself not to finish his own thought: _“Kind of like Dad used to.”_

_“And I'm shaking so much, really yearning,_  
_Why don't you show up and make it alright…”_

Angry Dean would eventually get around to the meat of what was actually bugging him. Sad Dean needed a few gentle nudges to open up. Even a tight-lipped Dean could be helpful; he had learned to suss out Dean's sore spots by scuttling around them, like he was playing Mood Minesweeper.

Not like he was much better, disappearing like he did, but at least he was honest with Dean _and_ himself. So what if Satan had been in his co-pilot for a few weeks? He was living. He was coping. Doing even better now that he could get out of Dean’s orbit; empty his own head for ten minutes.

Maybe Dean was right—maybe he _did_ do this to run away from his problems, metaphorically speaking. He’d forgotten them quickly enough during these last two miles.

 _"Well, fuck **you** Dean,"_ he thought sharply. Better this than drowning them in ten dollar whiskey.

Speaking of drowning—he cringed inwardly at his own line of thought—Castiel’s trench coat was still taking up precious real estate in Baby’s trunk. Sam wasn’t even ready to broach _that_ conversation. The two of them hadn’t parted as friends, and that had to be at least some of what was eating at Dean, but… 

_“You swore that you never would leave me, baby,_  
_What ever happened to you?”_

He pondered, and not for the first time, if maybe—and it sounded a little less crazy every time he considered it—if maybe Dean’s connection to Cas was...“more than friendship”. Something far more earthly than their so-called “profound bond”.

Well, it wasn’t _completely_ crazy to begin with. Technically Castiel had no sex or gender, or even a human form. He was—what’d he call it?—a “beam of celestial intent the size of the Chrysler Building”? He just happened to be wearing a guy named Jimmy Novak. 

_“Who,”_ Sam wondered, _“if he was religious enough to be an angel’s vessel, might have taken umbrage at being the object of another man’s affection.”_

But it wasn’t like being attracted to someone of the same sex was unheard of, even for a “straight” guy. He himself had kissed a guy at that one Sigma Gamma party and didn’t hate it, but that was part of a game—one that got him into Michelle Drake’s pants by the end of the night. And his singular Women’s Studies class brought up stuff about gender and queerness and spectrums and how no one’s every really one-hundred-percent _anything_.

But... _Dean_. “Busty Asian Beauties” Dean. Dean who would give him a handful of quarters and shoo him away to play Frogger in the motel office while he “entertained” a girl from two rooms down.

_“When I'm thinking it over_  
_Oh, tired of the light_  
_I just don't seem to find…”_

Maybe it was a case of protesting too much. Overcompensating. For a guy who didn’t do chick flick moments, he’d watched an awful lot of them. Then there was that crush on Dr. Sexy. And if he had a dollar for every glance and glare between Dean and Cas that went on just a _biiit_ too long...

He heaved a long sigh. They needed to talk. They had always put asphalt under Baby’s tires—or distance under gel insoles—as an excuse _not to_ talk. It was always a case or a tragedy or _something_. And, yeah, maybe it would be more bad news. But they'd deal with it. All Sam needed was for Dean to admit he was _not_ okay. 

He was now back where he started, with the pond and the hills and the clear, flat path behind him. A half-mile from the motel. Blacktop under his feet. 

_“Light of the love that I found,_  
_Light of the love that I found…”_

**Author's Note:**

> I totally made up Sam's Nike FuelBand stats with the most cursorily Googled statistics, so if there's anyone who knows what a good heart rate is for a six-foot-four or -five 30 year old is, hit me with the numbers!


End file.
